Cyberpunk
by Althea SaDiablo
Summary: AU. Westcorp is one of the most advanced of the megacorps. Still finishing her degree, Shuurei never thought she'd be picked for a top-secret experimental program codenamed the Imperial Palace Project. The only question is one she doesn't dare ask: why?
1. Welcome Home

Author's Note: Welcome to the first chapter of my notorious Saiunkoku Cyberpunk Alternate Universe, which is currently past the 26,000 word mark and continues to expand. Scary, yes, I know. So this is only the very tip of the iceberg. There are many things unexplained in this first chapter, but I promise that all will be revealed in time. Yes, the entirety of the main cast will be appearing eventually. Illustrations courtesy of my good friend Majo (YaminoMajo on ff . net) might be cropping up from time to time. Any other questions, please feel free to ask me in the comments. I hope you have as much fun reading this AU as I'm having writing it!

* * *

The smoggy clouds of the city hung low over the slums, reflecting the sickly orange-red of the running lights. It was never truly dark in that section of the city, and the litter-choked streets trapped the residual heat from the outdated house webs that still crawled sluggishly under the concrete and permaform shells of the crumbling tenements. They threaded the grimy windows with spidery black lines, ancient history compared to the current standard for building systems. The carcasses of long-dead vehicles rotted on the sides of the roads, their bodies eaten away by rust and corrosion. The hover grids in the slums were long since defunct, and any vehicle that attempted to navigate the hazardous streets had to do so on its own power. The street lights, too, were mainly out, the LEADs blinking in eerie, irregular patterns-- easy and cheap to fix if anyone had an interest in doing so. But the slums were the exclusive realm of the deadheads and squatters and the yaka meta-gangs; the city government liked to pretend they didn't exist, and corp presence of any kind was practically nil.

Only deadheads and the insane walked the streets of the slums alone after the lights went down; even the cockiest of the yaka went in twos and threes. It wasn't clear which of the two categories the man coming down the street fell into. His steps were too steady for the first, his carriage too erect and easy for the second. He was trim for a man, but the breadth of his shoulders under the smooth monofabric of his hooded, concealing coat was unmistakable, and a subtle warning. Much more telling was the way his heavy boots were completely silent over the broken glass and loose rubble of the street, and he never missed a step even when he passed through the deep black shadows thrown by the buildings. It was enough to warn off the slum residents, who either developed an instinctive and finely-tuned sense for danger or didn't survive for long.

He seemed to know exactly where he was going, barely glancing at the abandoned apartment houses that hulked along the sides of the street like jagged, broken teeth. Even when he passed the threatening maws of the alleyways, with their dark promise of unseen dangers, he didn't hesitate at all. His steps finally slowed in front of one derelict building even more run-down than its neighbors. It was ancient by city standards, with old gothic cornices over the tall windows, and the walls were of actual stone that was worn and pitted with age. What little glass remained in the windows bore a black tracery in an ornate, repeating pattern-- old symbols of luck and blessing that hadn't been in vogue for at least a century. The ancient remnants of care and craftsmanship gave the building a tragic and ghostly appearance, so at odds with the permaform projects that surrounded it that it was physically unsettling.

The man stared at it for a moment, then turned away and walked over to the carcass of an old Xinkai490 that crouched on its splintered hubs half on the curb of the broken grid. Its taped-over windows betrayed it as a slummer's squat, and the litter of used tabs that spilled over the concrete around it in profusion spoke precisely of the nature of the squatter. The man gripped the peeled-back edging of one door and firmly yanked it up and open. He did so effortlessly, but the metal shrieked a rusty protest that echoed even over the continuous hum of outdated house webs.

The deadhead inside shrieked too, and cowered among the tatted sensors and expired memory-foam of the seat inside. Hands scabbed and burn-scarred from bad tabs clapped over where ears might be under matted, dirty dreadlocks, feet scrambled back and forth through the stinking litter that carpeted the floor. "Don't hurt me, don't hurt me me me don't hurt me!"

The man crouched down, his features lost in the shadows of his hood. "If you answer my questions," he said, and his voice was smooth, clipped and practically machine-cold.

"I don't know anything, I don't know, I don't know no know know--" the deadhead rocked himself back and forth, clutching at the rags of what had been a coat and was now a webwork of holes held together with frayed pieces of hub fabric and burnt-out web filaments. He started singing, tuneless and incoherent and broken, his voice wavering and skipping oddly between notes. Words came through the static slowly, a few at a time. "Need a tab, don't know, tab, a tab atabatab a-- tab, a tab, need a needaneeda--"

The man held up a double-pronged tab, milky white against dark gloves. The deadhead's washed-out eyes caught on it unerringly, and he snatched at it clumsily but with desperate, clawing speed. He fumbled it under the dirty hair at the base of his skull, inserting it into the plug there. Abruptly the frenetic movements of his wasted body ceased, and his eyes rolled up as the drug started to take effect, the electric charge of the tab reaching his brain to supplement the erratic, damaged firing of the synapses there. He sank bonelessly into the ruined seat of the Xinkai, and his voice became half hum and half hoarse, sobbing moan.

"My questions," the dark man said.

"Anything you want, thing thing any want," the deadhead's tone was euphoric, his white eyes half-hidden by ragged, bleached lashes.

"How long have you been here?"

"Dunno. Day day month month month month month year year. Maybe year."

"Almost three and a half years, then," the man said, keeping pace with the deadhead's rambling effortlessly. "That building over there, the old one. During the time you've been here, has anyone lived there?"

"Not alive, no living, no squat squat nil nobody. Nil, nihilist, emempty. No living."

"Has anyone been in or out?"

"Nilnilnestno. Hanhandhaun. Haunhan. Haun."

"Haunted?"

"Thassed. That. That yat yie. YoungYaka try. Youngtimes. Nilno. Don't go. Han haunted."

"How far in do they go?" the question was a dangerous one, though the man's tone never changed. He shifted where he crouched, and the flickering light of a nearby LEAD caught and flashed off green, reflective eyes in the shadows of his hood.

"No know no! Dunno dunno. I don't know anything, don't know-- not long no, can't. Can't go. Doororororar. Can't dooooooor." The deadhead began rocking back and forth again. "Don't hurt me don't hurt me memememeee. . ."

"One last thing," the man said. "Who was the last to live there?"

"Don't don't know nonilno. Han haun hear. Hurd. Heard. Har said head heard hide. Hilde. Ren. Hilde Ren. Chai. Child Ren children. Oooh. One. Two. One two one two. Long lung long long year year year year year year long year. Nonilno don't don't--" the deadhead's white eyes flickered back and forth at a frantic rate, his words losing all coherence as the tab worked on his brain.

The man turned away in disgust, rising from his crouch to look up at the building again. The unlit, broken windows under their corroded stonework looked like eyes, and a dark stain descended from one of the upper windows like the track of a tear-- as if the building itself was weeping. Carefully he picked his way up the worn steps to the door, avoiding the garbage that choked them. The antique swinging door of the building was barred with a pipe that had long since rusted into place. The man wrapped his fingers around it, his shoulders bunching with the effort. The wire that ran down the back of each finger within his glove whispered faintly with force as he pulled. Abruptly the pipe gave, the metal twisting and breaking where the rust had weakened it. The man put his shoulder to the door, and it moved with groaning slowness under the pressure, granting reluctant access to the interior.

The lobby beyond echoed the exhausted elegance of the facade, with an abnormally high ceiling and sculpted walls. The pattern from the house web in the windows repeated itself in the grimy mosaic tiles that covered the floor, although many were missing or broken, and dark holes interrupted the design where various unknown fixtures had once been. There were no lights; pockets of illumination seeped through the broken windows, leaving much of the room in thick shadow. Dust particles hung suspended, drifting. Towards the ground they swirled and eddied as thickly as a mist, and a strange electric charge prickled the air, interrupting the senses and creating a profound sense of unease.

The man walked forward soundlessly. The curving stairs to the upper floors he navigated carefully, as if unsure of their soundness. He skipped stairs seemingly at random as he went, but the dust drifting in his wake revealed low, barely visible wires that stretched across the stairs. A faint voice seemed to hover on the edge of hearing, weaving in and out of the hum of the old house web but never quite emerging into audible words. It had no discernible source-- it was like the echo of a child's voice, resounding eerily in the dark corners.

Midway up the stairs the man paused, his progress interrupted by a faint releasing click from above. He dropped down to the floor in an outward billow of dust as something unseen whistled through the air where his chest had been, then swung back again when it reached the apex of its arc. A winch mechanism somewhere in the darkness above whirred to life, hoisting the blunt scrap-metal pendulum to reset the primitive trap, but it caught in the process and the motor choked, wheezed, and then gave up.

If there were other traps, either the man avoided them or they didn't activate. The stairs gave way to a dark, narrow hallway on the top floor, but his steps never hesitated despite the lack of light. He stopped at a scarred, twisted door forced shut in a frame it no longer fit. The metal had buckled around the ancient jam, and heavy dents scored its surface. A primitive knob was fixed to it, but twisted by some unknown force, and it broke off in the man's hand. He set his shoulder to the door without success, then stepped back and kicked viciously at the ragged crack along its edge with the hollow boom of metal on metal. The door shuddered and gave way with a final outraged protest on the third kick, swinging inwards on bent but somehow still functional hinges.

As the sound of the resulting crash died away a faint melody played from a tiny hidden speaker, tinkling a gentle song in the air. The entrance way was empty and dark, thick with drifts of dust, but dim light fell into the room beyond. A small motor whirred there, and a tinny mechanical voice said, "Welcome home, Aniue! Johnny Five alive! Welcome home, Aniue! Johnny Five alive!"

The man stood frozen in the doorway for a moment, then freed himself from whatever paralysis gripped him to toss a rounded Daruma sensor into the next room. The Daruma's eye snapped open, the wide sensor beam skimming the room in a full circle and then snapping itself off again with an affirming beep. The edges of the man's coat stirred up a faint powder of dust as he stepped beyond the entrance-way, and the soft music clicked off again as he picked up the Daruma from the ground. He pushed his hood back and glanced over the room.

The faint light from the LEADs outside caught on pale hair with a silvery sheen that, coupled with the pale, youthful face, seemed too much of a contrast to be natural. Even freed from the shadow of his hood his eyes reflected the available light oddly, although now that they were fully visible they were more blue-green then anything else. They tracked slowly over the dim, faded paint that covered the walls of the room in a forest of strange creatures and designs, most done in broad, childish strokes but a few evidencing greater motor skill and maturity. One section of wall was covered in overlapping hand prints, all of them child-sized. Shards of mismatched furniture, broken glass, and scattered computer parts were strewn all over the floor, but the completeness of the destruction spoke of a methodical, concentrated effort. Even the kitchen fixtures had been ripped out, their wires sprouting crazily from the holes in the walls. The broken window in the far wall still had shards of glass clinging to its frame, and scraps of what might once have been a curtain stirred in the faint, ozone-heavy breeze that drafted through it.

"Welcome home, Aniue! Johnny Five alive! Welcome home, Aniue!"

The tinny, repetitious voice came from a busted-down speaker on an outdated SHOUgakou computer core. The core itself was mounted on a crude robot body which lay upended on the floor. Frayed wires and salvaged connectors ran across the joint between the cabinet and the caterpillar wheels formed of cheap, stripped monofiber carpet, helplessly spinning in the air. An old niivee camera was taped to a pivot on top of the box, and the lens whirred and clicked as it zoomed in and out. A broad red '5' was painted on the access panel in red, with another small hand print in the loop like a signature. Most of the wires were torn, and the body pivot and crude claw-arms were snapped. It looked as if the home-made bot had been the victim of a violent collision.

When the man picked it up, one of the arms fell off entirely as the bare copper conductors that connected it snapped. The ancient camera continued its futile attempts to focus. "Johnny Five alive! Welcome home, Aniue! Johnny Five alive! Welcome hoooome--" the mechanical voice distorted and died as man disconnected the old power source crudely soldered to the back of the cabinet. His gloved fingers brushed the gritty dust from the small hand print, then he gently set the cobbled-together teaching bot down on a battered foam cushion.

The destruction continued in the next room. Here the formerly bright painting was scarred, the surface one wall twisted and deformed by a long, erratic scorch that ran up to and across the ceiling like the frozen afterimage of lightning. The apparent cause lay carelessly abandoned by one wall; a Mod10 taser rifle, its long barrel folded back on itself, the double-pronged charge burnt out. In one corner was a twisted metal desk, crushed in the center by some kind of violent impact. Across from it was an upended workbench, with tools that had long since seen better days lying strewn among half-assembled bots and broken down computer cores. Even the satellite feed dangling from a metal rod near one window hadn't escaped the destruction: a hole was ripped through the delicate cobweb receiver fabric. Against the far wall lay what was left of a mattress, a skeletal box-and-spring arrangement with any hint of memory foam melted away from the frame by the passage of time.

There was something terrible in the man's expression as he surveyed the wreckage of what had once obviously been a home, and he made a faint noise like a snarl when his eyes tracked over the electric burn on the wall and the bent table. He went to the corner with the upended work bench and began to search through the scattered tools and machine parts methodically, his eyes checking over the ground with a thoroughness too precise to be natural. He lifted aside a corroded cabinet panel and then paused, scanning the floor below. One hand hovered over the spot for a moment. Then he flexed his fingers and the wires from inside his glove extended, poking through the fabric like pricked copper claws. He used them with astounding delicacy and precision, scraping them slowly over the floor and lifting up a monofilament net that had been buried by dust beneath the panel. He retrieved a container matrix from under his coat and dropped the faint glimmer of the material into it, then carefully stashed it again and retracted the wire claws.

He nodded in satisfaction as he stood, but paused before he exited the room. Something seemed to pull him around again, and he crossed with slow steps to the mattress and leaned over almost reluctantly to pick something else up off the floor. A grimed pair of antique veed goggles lay across his open palm, with their prima-leather settings still whole and supple despite the dust that clung to them, the rims catching the faint LEAD lights from the street below. Their strap, dangling below the pale-haired man's fingers, was too short to be fitted over an adult head. The lenses were smoky with age, and a spiderweb of cracks splintered one of them into irregular fragments.

The man looked at the goggles for a long time, silent. When he moved it was sudden, almost furtive; he tucked the goggles into the breast of his monofabric coat and quickly pulled up the hood again, hiding his face. He went out with rapid, silent steps, and the reflective green glimmer of his shadowed eyes never turned back to the ruin he left behind.


	2. First Day on the New Job

Author's Note: In honor of this story actually getting a review (great gods!), I thought I'd hurry up and post the next chapter ahead of my intended schedule. I'm currently a bit blocked on this, so I'm probably going to switch over to my Demon Hunter AU for a while . . . although wow, come to think of it, I haven't even put that up here on ff . net, just on my livejournal. Huh. Maybe I should do something about that. Although since only the first part of that is actually completed, it's not like there's any hurry . . . I could put up that Omnia story instead . . . But enough of my deranged ramblings! On with Cyberpunk!

* * *

"--and the stations on the left are access points to the Palace systems, including the library and records. Security is of paramount importance, so there is no access to outlying systems without special clearance from the Palace Control Office-- unusual, I know, but I'm sure you understand the necessity."

"Yes, of course," Shuurei said to the Director's broad back, since it was obviously the response he expected. She felt a little overwhelmed by the presence of retinal scanners on just about all of the doors leading off the corridors they'd traversed so far, but then there had been a DNA scanner on the door they had entered the facility through. It could hardly be surprising that it was sealed off from other computer systems when it was so thoroughly sealed off physically. There wasn't even a single window in the building. She had never seen such precautions before-- but then, she had never been in a top-secret corporate project laboratory before.

The Director of the Imperial Palace Project, Sa Chuujin, was no less intimidating than the pervasive surveillance equipment. For a first, he was a big, barrel-chested man, and his expensive suit seemed cut to emphasize that. His face, too, was heavy and blunt, with a rough strawberry-blond beard that did nothing to disguise heavy jowls and dark skin. Aside from his physical stature, though, he was not only in charge of one of the megacorp's top projects, he was also a member of the Sa Family, and thus undoubtedly owned a substantial number of shares in said corporation. It was unusual that so august a personage had volunteered to give her a tour of the facility, and she wondered why he had decided to do so himself rather than leaving it to the Head of the Developmental Team, who would be her direct superior. Though she had been hired to the Project as a special consultant, her position hardly seemed to merit such consideration.

In fact, the entire job was a little strange. Why had she been hired at all? It was the question she hadn't quite dared to ask at the interview, for fear of the offer being withdrawn. But despite her work with some of the top researchers in the field of neural connections and programming, she was not in any way famous, and was still working on her degree part-time. She'd assisted in research a number of times, enough to have gotten her name listed as a contributor to a number of important scholarly papers from her department at the University, but that was about the extent of it. Her resume as a free-lancer, while off to a good start, was still comparatively bare.

"Simulators are down this hallway; there are several rooms with full facilities. They're equipped with the latest projector and sensory technology, of course. You won't have any difficulties running your results; the processing power is more than sufficient. We have yet to use the systems to their fullest capacity to date." Shuurei nodded and made a mental note to return and check the simulator rooms more closely, but the focus of her thoughts were on the mystery of her hire.

The money . . . well. The money was good. Very good, which was just another weird part of the deal. It would take care of the year's tuition if she stuck with it, and maybe knock of a good number of the bills that were accumulating in her father's largely neglected files. Seiran had recently needed major repairs at the shop, too, and while he didn't say anything about _what_ or _why_ (as usual), or even _how much_ (also as usual), she knew that it had to be substantial. She also knew better than to push him about it, or to ask her father.

"And here are the work labs, where we'll be concluding the tour. This one is for your use; your partner is waiting for you here." The cold metal door, marked "Lab 3" in dully, blocky letters, slid aside soundlessly. He stood aside and smiled at her, which was a mildly appalling experience. It looked like the expression hurt Director Sa's face. "Ladies first."

She tried to return the smile with something that didn't involve clenched teeth, and proceeded him through the entrance. The room beyond was painfully clean and painfully rectangular, furnished with chairs of brushed tube metal and cold, colorless permaform, and a matching table with network ports and plugs set into the surface. The lights were the same cold, faintly bluish LEADs that illuminated the entire facility.

They showed very clearly that there was no one in the room.

"Not _here_?" She glanced up and saw the Director's face turning an interesting shade of purple, one that clashed distinctly with his beard.

His obvious anger seemed a little extreme to her. "Perhaps he's simply running late?" she suggested delicately.

"Running late," the Director grated. "Of course. Miss Kou, if you would have a seat-- excuse me for a moment, please."

She settled herself in one of the uncomfortable chairs and made herself busy checking the dossiers and projects she'd been given. The Director didn't leave, but rather walked over to the shielded viewscreen in one corner. Supposedly the screens provided privacy by sending their sound vibrations directly into the ear, and likewise collected and completely absorbed the responses. Or at least, that was what the adverts said-- in reality they leaked sound, and Shuurei had very sharp ears. Not that the Director was particularly good at keeping his voice down, in any case.

"--supposed to _be_ here, where . . . what do you _mean_ you don't know?! . . . well, _find_ it, this is too-- run the scans again, it can't just disappear! Put a tracer--" the Director glanced over at her, and Shuurei pretended to be absorbed in her papers. Still, he lowered his voice, and she couldn't hear any more of the conversation.

He approached her with the same forced smile when he was finished, looming over her while she sat. "I'm sorry, Miss Kou, but it seems that the subject with whom you'll be working has been . . . delayed. As you said. Please do wait here and familiarize yourself with the projects in the meantime. Your partner will be along presently."

She smiled blandly into the anger that so obviously seethed beneath the veneer of calm he was attempting to project. "Certainly I don't mind waiting. There's more than enough here to keep me busy, so shall I get started?"

"Of course, Miss Kou. Now, I'm afraid I'm required elsewhere. If you'd excuse me . . ."

He didn't really wait for her permission to stump out of the room, nor did she have any reason to detain him. His presence made her uncomfortable in any case, a reaction she identified as illogical and below her level of conscious control. She was just as glad that he was gone; it was impossible to concentrate on reading the documents with him around. She wondered at his frustration a little, though. She had been told that they were having difficulties with the young man she'd been hired to work with, but why such anger on the part of the Director?

She understood a little better when it became time for her to leave, and her supposed partner, one Shi Ryuuki, still hadn't shown up.


	3. Search Parameters

Author's Note: More Cyberpunk, at long last! Yes, this chapter took me just about forever to write; my apologies for that. The problem with Cyberpunk is that, while its existent word count is very high, it's all for scenes that take place about five chapters in. _Sequential_ scenes are few and far between. And all the in-between stuff is material I have no inspiration for, so I'm writing it only through sheer bloody-mindedness. Which takes more time, and time is in severely limited supply in my world. But! I hope this chapter will be worth your while. The plot, it thickens . . .

* * *

On the third day Shuurei grew tired of waiting around. She'd already started one of the projects in her dossier by herself, and had gotten to the point where she needed to run and test the program on a system more complicated than what was available in the work lab. A quick consultation of the analysis rooms and some basic checking of her program fed back results that made her groan-- she still needed to factor in more research before she could complete it.

The simulation room computers were too specialized to do a general inquiry on, so she ducked back out into the featureless corridor and headed for one of the information consoles. The viewscreen sprang to life at her approach, inviting her to jack in immediately. Instead she asked for a map, and after noting the locations of the raw data libraries, sent off inquiries on the connection analyses she needed. A few seconds later the responses came back negative. She frowned and pegged the research and biotech labs instead, but once again nothing came back. Altering the search criteria didn't change anything, either.

She leaned against the shielded side of the terminal recess and drummed her fingers as she looked over the many labs and sub-labs, libraries and simulation rooms that made up the Imperial Palace Project facility. "How can there be no results? Did I enter the information wrong?" she wondered out loud. "If it's not in the libraries or in the research facilities, where is it?"

"Your initial search terms were correct, if you're looking for the Base Control Analyses," said a voice from behind her. "But one of the biotech teams is running simulations off them now, so they're not in the records library at the moment."

She frowned, too focused on her search to be surprised by the unexpected input from a stranger. "Surely there are copies somewhere, they should come up in response to the search."

"Backups, but no copies. No one's ever needed the raw data concurrently before. But you can access those if you don't want to wait, and if you don't mind a walk-- the data backups are disconnected from the main systems. They're over here, in storage." A corresponding area of the map lit up invitingly.

Shuurei noted the location, carefully memorizing the hallways in between. "Thank you," she said, turning to face her benefactor. "You've saved me having to--"

She stopped in confusion-- no one stood behind her. In fact the corridor was empty in both directions, the sliding doors of the labs and simulation rooms all shut. When she turned back to the console, the highlighted map was gone: the viewscreen had returned to the main page.

But when she followed the path she had memorized through the blank hallways of the Imperial Palace facility, it did indeed lead her to the expected digital archives. The records she had wanted were there, too, and easy to find-- almost as if someone had left them out for her. The very first basic search she ran on the dedicated archive systems brought up exactly the files that she needed.

The strangeness of it was still nagging at her mind that evening as she unjacked from the network where she had been logging her results and powered down the system. It didn't make sense-- _someone_ had shown her where to go, she never would have known otherwise. She was fairly sure that she wouldn't have found the analyses she'd wanted, either, since her glimpse of the organization of the archives had convinced her that whatever "system" by which it had been arranged was probably unworthy of such a title. You'd almost think that they _wanted_ the information to be hard to find.

She handed a report on the day's progress to the person who'd been assigned as her supervisor, an officious man named Sai with a paunch (and rather obvious and unfortunate attempts at hair reassignment) who didn't really seem interested in what she was doing at all.

"Your partner? Did it show today?" he asked her brusquely.

"I didn't see him," she said diplomatically, though something about the question threw her off-stride.

Before she could pinpoint exactly what it was, he had tossed the datmat onto a desk. "Dissmissed until 0900 tomorrow."

By the time she had gotten through security she had mostly conquered her anger at his attitude. The procedures were far too mechanical and numbing; they replaced clean anger with dull resignation and annoyance. Retinal scans to get in were understandable, DNA scans a little over the top . . . but having to do it all again on the way out? Surely the full-body scan that she had to go through both coming and going was enough.

It was still bothering her when she arrived home. The door slid open once it identified her, and she waited expectantly for the slightly tinny "Welcome home, Shuurei" from the hidden speaker in the entranceway-- which didn't come.

_The house web's audio must be on the fritz again,_ she thought with an internal sigh. That was no surprise, more of an inevitability. At least the genkan system was working-- it whisked away her discarded shoes and dropped her house slippers, which she stepped into gratefully. After such a long day, the soft memoryfoam felt heavenly under her feet.

They also coincidentally made her step down the hallway soundless. She hadn't gone far before she heard her father's voice, and the low sound of Seiran's reply.

"--a lot, I know," he was saying. "Shard's covering a good percentage, though."

"I'm just glad the damage was mechanical, not physical," Shouka replied.

She had been about to call out to them, but her father's voice saying "damage" caught her before she'd started, and her greeting died in her throat. Without meaning to Shuurei found herself stopping in the hallway, just outside of visual range from inside the room beyond. Her adopted brother never talked about his work as a spec ops agent, and he was adroit at changing the subject whenever the topic of repairs incurred in the line of duty came up. Seiran claimed that his assignments weren't dangerous, but his excuses didn't account for his occasional and unexpected week-long absences.

"I'll take another assignment to cover it," Seiran said. "Or pick up an extra security gig-- there should be a mall hiring, they usually need someone extra around this time of year."

"I'm not concerned about the money, I'm concerned about you," her father's voice was unusually serious. "You've been taking a lot of risks lately."

"It's nothing I can't handle," Seiran said, and Shuurei recognized the reassurance in his tone-- but now there was a note of pleading, as well. She knew that he hated to bother either her or Shouka with his problems, and would not mention them at all if he could help it. That he felt a deep gratitude to Shouka for taking him in Shuurei understood very well, but in her opinion he took it to an unnecessary extreme. "Please don't worry about me."

Her father's sigh was soft. "It was worth it?"

"Credible information." There was so much emotion in those two words that it would have shocked Shuurei breathless, had she been breathing to begin with. Longing, desperation, resignation, wonder, despair-- and a wild, impossible hope that it seemed Seiran himself could not believe. "He's . . . alive. In there, somewhere. _Alive._"

There was a pause, as if her father had reached out to touch Seiran's shoulder-- she wanted to do it, but she held herself still, her feet rooted to the ground, her arms stiff at her sides. "Have you asked Shuurei?"

She could hear Seiran draw a breath. "No. I-- no. Not yet. I can't, yet. Not until I know more. Perhaps-- perhaps it's nothing, perhaps it will come to nothing. I can't ask her yet."

_Ask me what?_ She shouted the words inside her head, desperate for the context she didn't have.

"We'll see," her father said. "Trust Shuurei. She'll find the answer."

"If there is an answer," Seiran said, as if he had already said too much, allowed himself too much. "She'll be back soon, I should start dinner."

Which meant that she should be at the genkan-- not in the hallway eavesdropping. Shuurei was a little out of breath, but she managed to be standing in the entranceway, as if she had just put on her slippers, before her father stuck his head into the corridor.


	4. Memory Parity Failure

**Author's Note:** Hallo, all! Been a while, hasn't it? Fear not, I still live! . . . yeah, you didn't even notice I was gone, did you? That's what I thought. Well, it's been a busy few months, but things have finally settled down enough that I can post again. Do tell me what you think of the chapter, too, since it's completely un-beta-ed.

* * *

**xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx**

The visions came sometimes, unbidden. They were always a wild jumble of images, of words, sounds—and then other inputs as well, inputs he couldn't easily quantify because they were not attached to any data he knew how to measure. Experience alone allowed him to tag some of them as "good" and some of them as "bad," but the quantities were unpredictable, and there was too much overlap in the data categories for him to be confident about the filing.

General fault. Access denied. System overload. Memory parity failure. Cannot run script. System failure. Reboot. Reboot. Reboot.

And then sometimes the inputs would end, but that was even worse. Because then there were no inputs whatsoever, no data quantities coming or going, no feeds, no signal. He could not access the networks. He could not output data or commands. He could not receive. The only database he could access was the internal memory, and that was where the problem lay. All the information there was either damaged, encrypted, or fragmented, and no matter how hard he tried he could not make it align.

He was not online, and yet he had internal function. He had internal function, but his memory was fragmented, he could not debug, he could not connect to an exterior system, he could not reach out. He could not reach out, there was something wrong with his system. There was nothing wrong with his system, it worked perfectly.

Except it didn't.

No core data values. He was offline. He was shut down. He was a disconnected system.

Internal processing worked. He ran algorithms and code. He edited the code and ran it again. He created new code, a new program. He tried to create a new program to defrag his scattered memory. Tag and prioritize. Identify, sort.

_A bundle of silver wire_, **estimate:** 90 km/oz, unknown values, **possible association:** hair, **sort:** unknown. _Unknown values_, **sort:** unknown. _Unquantifiable data_, **possible ID:** warmth, **reference:** temperature scale, **sort:** unknown. _Nivee camera_, circa XXXX, **reference:** encyclopedia, **sort:** robot, **sort:** unknown. _Painting_, **medium:** flour-based paint on plaster, **reference:** art database, **tag source:** room interior, **sort:** location. _LEAD readout_, unknown quantities, **brightness:** 5.6 gnw, **possible association:** basic functionality, **sort:** robot. _Number Five_, human male, **name:** Shi Koumei, **age:** range 11-15, **sort:** Imperial Palace Project, **sort:** Number Five, **sort:** unknown. _#008B8B_, **definition:** blue-green, aquamarine, **sort:** Number Two. _Gentle, safe_, unquantifiable data, **reference:** dictionary, **sort:** Number Two. _Lightning_, sudden electric discharge, **estimate:** 5 kA, **tag source: **room interior, **sort:** weather, **sort:** unknown. _Unquantifiable data_, **possible ID:** pain, **sort:** Number Two, **sort:** Number Five, **sort:** Imperial Palace Project, **sort:** unknown. **Sort:** Number Six. _Panic_, **reference:** dictionary, **sort:** Number Six.

**Sort:** Number Six. **Sort:** Number Six. Sort Number Six.

_Aniue! Aniue, it's so dark, help me—I'm afraid—it hurts— Aniue, no! No, noooooo!_

_Aniue._ **Reference:** dictionary. **Sort:** Number Two. **Sort:** Number Six. **Sort:** unknown.

_Number Six._ Unquantifiable data. **Sort:** unknown.

His program was falling apart. He couldn't hold it together. The internal memory did not parse. There were too many unquantifiable values. There were too many unknowns. He could not receive input. He could not contact exterior systems. He was disconnected. Shut down. Shut down. _Shut down—_

His core data values came online. He received input. _0600:00:00 hours._ System startup. **System Integrity:** . . . _confirmed._ **Connection check:** . . . _confirmed._ **Exterior access:** . . . _confirmed._

The first thing he did was ping the dictionary. **Search database:** _D R E A M_

**xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx xOx**

Issues with the power grid shut down the University, unexpectedly freeing up Shuurei's day. _It's always something,_ she thought with resignation as she put away her precious copperized skillet. Between the periodic Anarchist Organized Anti-Establishment League protests, budget cuts, prodigious red tape, corporate headhunting, and occasional explosions from student experiments (not to mention dealing with the students themselves), it was a wonder to her that the professors could get any research done at all. It was also one of the main reasons she was disinclined to pursue a career in academia- interesting it might be, but all the inefficiency rankled her orderly mind.

Her father was at work, although it would be more correct to say that he had never actually come home from work. "Corporate Librarian" wasn't exactly a high-paying position, as evidenced by the continuously deteriorating state of their residence, but Shouka certainly seemed to love it. Seiran, too, had already departed; a battered old Xinkai400 that might have been white once had screeched to a halt out front, and he had left quickly before its driver could come out to fetch him.

But that meant she was at loose ends for the day. Her research projects could only be completed at the University, so that option was closed to her. And while the residence was slowly falling apart, between her efforts and Seiran's it was at least clean. It was still very early in the morning, but she was already awake and dressed, so going back to sleep was out. For the first time in a long time she actually had nothing to do.

Although that wasn't precisely true. There were her projects for Westcorp- and due to the absence of her partner they were all behind schedule. She wasn't supposed to go to the Imperial Palace Facility, but there was no way the projects would _get_ finished at all if she didn't put in some extra time.

_Provided, of course, that I _can _finish them_, she sighed to herself later, walking down the featureless halls of the Facility and frowning at the viewscreen she carried. It was clear that some of the projects required two people to complete, either for a cyclic generation of data that couldn't be duplicated by a simulation, or requirements that went well beyond her area of expertise. Presumably her absent partner would take up the slack- if he ever showed.

Which remained as puzzling as ever. Why was Westcorp keeping her waiting around? For that matter, why was a megacorp's experimental operations being kept on hold for want of input from a single recalcitrant source? Westcorp could clearly draw in top talent, so why-

The intense hum of busy processors startled her out of her thoughts as she entered one of the labs. She had chosen it because it was unoccupied- and indeed there was no one sitting at the terminals or jacked into the network. Even the viewscreens were dark, and yet the computers were clearly involved in some sort of resource-intensive activity. She frowned, and with barely a thought her fingers activated the necessary program mole to patch her viewscreen in to their processing-

-and the display exploded suddenly with data windows and code, scrolling almost too fast for her to follow. Images flickered in one corner in a relentless flow, switching from one to the next with barely enough time for them to register. Text scrolled and swam in the background, characters running both from left to right and up to down. Charts and graphs came and went, data highlighted, enlarged, cross-referenced, generated more data. Information downloaded from the archives in a constant flicker of completing status bars. An image in the corner paused, and Shuurei had enough time to identify it- jungle animals- and then it flowed into a file, and another followed, and another- lightning, a spanner, a tropical seascape, flowing quicksilver, an old-fashioned metal desk, a fireworks explosion, heavy black boots, a coiled jack plug, a computer core, a tool bench, a window, stairs covered in tile, a mattress, a bowl of rice- then the images were gone and it was just text, the lyrics of a song, something that looked like an encyclopedia article that went by too fast for her to read, a sudden bold character-

-instinctively her hand shot out and captured the image on her screen before it could disappear-

-夢-

-and then abruptly the viewscreen went blank, all the data and activity gone in an instant as the connection she had made to the computers in the lab was cut. The processors, too, were slowing down from their frantic whirr to the normal electric murmur of idle machines.

_What was-_

"Sorry about that," the contrite voice came out of nowhere and made her jump- no, it had to be from the audio systems hooked up to the computer network. It was also clearly recognizable to Shuurei's ears as the voice which had guided her to the data she'd needed a few days beforehand. "I thought this lab was free today."

"Well, it is free," she said, regaining her composure. "That's why I came here."

"That's right, you're not one of the researchers," the voice noted. "The new hire, right?"

"Special consultant," Shuurei said somewhat stiffly, then realized she was being ridiculous and relented. "I'm Kou Shuurei."

"Don't you come in Wednesdays to Saturdays? I thought today was a Tuesday- yes, the network chronometer says Tuesday, there's a .05% chance of a system error and a 1.445% chance of undetected outside attack, it must be a Tuesday-"

"It is a Tuesday," Shuurei assured him- at least, she was fairly certain the voice was male- surprised to find herself laughing. "I had some free time, so I decided to come in. And I believe it's customary to respond with your name, when someone gives you theirs."

"Is it really?" There was a pause. "Oh! Um, sorry. I'm- ah. Sai. That's me. Um. Nice to meet you?"

_Sai?_ Shuurei remembered her meeting with the portly project director, and his supercillious tones bore no relationship whatsoever with the mysterious but at least somewhat helpful presence with whom she spoke. Actually the contrast was completely ludicrous, and she couldn't imagine any of the serious researchers or Westcorp scientists being quite so . . . so . . .

. . . in fact, who could it be but her recalcitrant project partner? "Nice to meet you, too," she said,

_Shi Ryuuki._**  
**


End file.
